


No Glory in War

by ConsultingTimeLord



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (TV Movie 1996)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Minor Character Death, Time War Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 17:49:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingTimeLord/pseuds/ConsultingTimeLord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the midst of the Time War, the Doctor returns to Gallifrey with hopes of helping those in need. However, upon his return, all he finds is death, destruction, and the High Council of Time Lords ready to abandon a wounded planet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Glory in War

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the prompt: Why did Eight cut his hair between the movie and Night of the Doctor. Use as much angst as possible.

The glory of war happened after, when the winners returned home to empty celebration and the losers did the same to pick up the pieces of what they lost. At the end came the medals, the commendations, the memorials for those who didn't last until the close. But in the midst of battle, where soldiers stood soaked in death, tearing through the enemy to win back a sense of peace, there was never any glory in that.

On the edge of the fight stood the Doctor, his feet planted in a field of red grass that swayed whichever direction the near constant explosions demanded. Each pillar of light, combined with the light of the suns, caused the blades of grass to illuminate so brightly that they melted together into a sea of fire that licked at his ankles. His velvet jacket lay over his shoulders in tatters, his cravat gone and barely missed, lost on the wind while he ran. What remained was singed and soot-stained, not that any of it mattered to him as he watched Dalek ships and TARDIS's alike fall from the sky like shooting stars.

People, those outside of the Citadel, ran by him, screaming, dying, and the Doctor, the healer of the universe, felt entirely helpless. Hot acidic tears burned at the back of his eyes while his empathetic hearts ached. If his life could've ended the suffering, he would've given it, but he knew all that would do was add yet another body to the pile as each side continued to create more.

Standing there, he remembered his thoughts from a mere hour before, coming back to him in a fog as if years had passed. He thought, watching Gallifrey being bombarded by projectiles, that he could do some good. He thought perhaps he could live up to his name, save lives, but it all proved too much.

His brief visit to the Chamber of the High Council left him disgusted. A short exchange with former President Romana told him that Rassilon, taking advantage of the elitism practically ingrained in Time Lord DNA, planned to take the Time Lords to abandon everything, the war, the Gallifreyans they considered lesser, and leave the universe to die by the relentless Dalek fleets. The Doctor couldn't stand for that, couldn't stand by and watch his people turn themselves into abominations and the worlds to ash. So, he was left with a choice. One he didn't know he'd be able to make.

He stood in that field and watched his home burn around him before he turned to make his way back to his TARDIS. He kept low to the ground as he moved, staying close to cover when he could manage it. He wasn't far from a small village of Gallifreyans on the outskirts of the Citadel where he parked when a voice turned his head.

"It's the Doctor!" a child's voice cried out.

He looked around to see a young girl with matted blonde hair, blood leaking from a bad wound on her head. She approached him fearlessly as a small group of other children emerged from hiding. The Doctor knelt down to meet her on her level.

"How do you know who I am?" he said as he looked over her various injuries. He knew she wasn't Time Lord. None of them were.

"Your face is everywhere. Both the Daleks and Time Lords are looking for you. They were hoping you still had the same face and you do," she said, flinching away instinctively as the Doctor brushed back her hair to get a better look at the gash on her forehead.

"And what were you hoping I would bring, hm?" he asked the girl before turning toward the others. "Any medical supplies?"

A dark-haired, dark-skinned older boy shook his head. "No, Doctor, sir. Time Lords came and took them all for themselves."

"We were hoping you could bring safety," the little girl said, her eyes wide in awe at the sight of him, her face framed in blood. "That's what all the stories say you do."

The Doctor tore off a piece of his own jacket and daubed away at the blood around her wound. "Well, those stories clearly leave out the parts where I cause most of the problems I fix." He leaned back on his heels, feeling more hopeless than ever as he stared into the fearful eyes of each child, reignited with hope by his presence. "I'm sorry. I can't. There's nothing I can do."

"You're just going to leave us here?" she said, her eyes brimming with tears. She threw her tiny fists at his chest and he did nothing to stop her. "You're just like them. We thought you'd be different but you're just another Time Lord."

Another child, a girl a few years older than the one before him, spoke up. "We're all that's left of this village and the next. Just us. Please, Doctor."

His hearts constricted as he looked at them. What harm could it do, he thought. How badly could time be disrupted by helping a few children live? "All right. Come along, quickly, quietly."

"Can we gather our things?" the older boy said in a whisper as he corralled the other two small children, drawing a sigh out of the Doctor.

"This isn't the time. I have food and clothes in my TARDIS if you need them."

He led the train of children through the village, holding the little blonde girl in his arms. She was losing a lot of blood and he didn't know how much she'd lost when he found her but she seemed to be slipping in and out of consciousness as she rested her head on his shoulder. He spoke to her, little meaningless whispers just to get her talking back, keeping her awake. He kept his voice pleasant, unwavering, for her sake. He didn't know how long she had left and only hoped they would make it.

On the other side of the village lay an expanse of land at the end of which stood the TARDIS. There was nothing to hide behind, no trees with silver leaves, no house, no debris. He looked back at the children and prayed for the first time in a long time to the gods. Give him Time. Prevent them Pain. Delay Death.

He held the girl tight and crouched low behind the last little home in the village before turning to the group. "There's nothing to hide us out there. We're going to need to run and stay close. That is very important." He glanced up at the sky for any passing ships. "When I say run, we run. Have you got that?"

Everyone whispered yesses and gave nods. Even the little girl nodded into the crook of his neck. The Doctor turned back, gave the red sky one last scan, and stole a deep breath. "Run."

He bolted, knowing he would leave the others behind a little, but he needed the extra time to unlock the TARDIS. He held her close to keep her from jostling as he closed the distance to the doors. With frantic hands he reached into his pocket, expecting to find the key but finding nothing. In a lapse of judgment, he set the girl down to check his other pockets and found the oddly shaped key quickly. He reached out to touch the door and his hand his a force field, keeping his hand inches from the door.

"No," he whispered, tapping on the wall, causing ripples in the unseen force. The tapping grew more desperate until he was slamming his fists into it with the last of his strength. "NO. GO BACK. WE HAVE TO GO BACK."

He spun around and saw all of the children hesitate. They looked to him for guidance, placing their lives in his hands, and he ran toward them, ushering them on. It was a moment before it registered with them, but they did start to run, moving back toward the houses, the little girl in the arms of the older boy. That's when he heard the supersonic whistle in the sky and his strength left his body. He dropped to his knees just as the bomb hit, destroying the house they were only just behind, that they were all running toward. The blast hit him, deafened him, but not as hard as the realization of what he'd done. His body hit the field around the TARDIS with enough force to dim his sight, growing blacker and blacker around the edges, seeing only flames as he slipped into unconsciousness.

 

The Doctor awoke, ears ringing, but he didn't want to. He didn't want to remember, to live with the blood on his hands, the pain in his heavy hearts. But that choice wasn't his to make. He opened his eyes to a dry, burning field, smoke coating his lungs, blood coating his clothes. It required everything he had to push himself up to his hands and knees. Several feet away, he spotted a body, and with a naïve hope, he crawled toward it.

In the red grass lay the dark-skinned boy, one side of his body badly burned. The Doctor checked for a pulse and found nothing. Tears stung his eyes and his flesh as they flowed freely down his cheeks. Not far from him lay a small body with wisps of blonde hair, though unrecognizable as a living being. He scooped the boy up into his arms and held him close, thinking maybe, just maybe, he might regenerate. Maybe one burst of energy lay dormant within him. But the Doctor knew the truth. Even full Time Lords wouldn't have come back from that.

He didn't know how much time had passed when they arrived. The Time Lords. The ones who put the field around his TARDIS so he couldn't leave. He heard their approach and silently said his final apologies to the children who died too soon. He set down the boy's body and slowly stood, turning to face his two escorts who were adorned in full-collared pompous regalia. They recoiled at the sight of him, unnerved by his appearance and presence.

"Take me to them," he said, his voice coming out as a shaky growl.

They merely nodded, happy to turn their backs on him and lead him into the Citadel. They walked through streets littered with shattered glass, the once awe-inspiring buildings crumbling from the blasts. Fury blurred his vision, all he could see was the tallest building at the center where the High Council would be hidden away in the ground, far from the danger that touched lives they considered lesser than their own.

Before long, they were leading him into the Council Chamber where the High Council all sat around their long table with Rassilon placed at the head of it. He looked up at the Doctor with a smile as if his scorched, bloody form were a welcome sight. He scowled at them, taking the time to make eye contact with each one and every Time Lord glanced away in turn. Rassilon opened his mouth to speak but the Doctor didn't want to hear it.

"Why?" he hissed. "Why, why would you do that to me?"

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, Doctor?" he said, his commanding voice echoing through the chamber.

"Don't you?" he replied, unsettlingly calm. "My TARDIS. Surrounded by a field meant to keep me out. Keep me here. Ring any bells?"

"Ah, I apologize on behalf of the Council for that misstep, Doctor," Rassilon said pleasantly. "We just thought by keeping you here, we'd have a better chance at gaining your assistance."

"Your misstep cost the lives of five innocent children."

"And it's very sad indeed," Rassilon said, contorting his expression into one of sadness and sympathy.

The Doctor charged the table, causing those in the first few seats to leap out of their chairs before the two guards that led him in grabbed his arms to restrain him.

"I take it there's no chance of putting you in the tactical division?" said Rassilon, all false pleasantries gone.

"The day you replace those children's lives with yours is the day I'll fight for you," the Doctor growled.

"A pity. Take the Doctor to one of the cells on a charge of defection," he said, waving them away with his hand.

The Doctor didn't fight them, allowing them to push and throw him around as they led him back up to the ground floor. He deserved it. He believed he should rot in a cell, dying over and over until he had no lives left. The idea that he could finally rest with no more blood on his hands was the only ounce of feather-weighted hope left in his stone petrified hearts. They dragged him across the glossy floors, through rooms with ceilings higher than two stories, until they reached a high archway with a sealed metal door that led to their high security prison.

They released him for only a moment so they could unlock the door when the Doctor heard twin thuds behind him. Out of pure curiosity, he turned and saw his two guards lying unconscious in the floor. Above them stood a woman who had pause to fix her slightly tousled hair.

"Romana?" he said, his voice cracking as if he hadn't spoken in years.

"I've only bought you ten minutes at best. You'd better move," she replied, her expression stern.

He shook his head, prepared to stand his ground. "No, no I want this."

She appeared as though she were one more self-deprecating comment away from slapping him. "I don't know what you think you want, but it isn't this. Lives have been lost. Many more lives will be lost if you're stuck in here."

"Go in my place," he said, resigned.

"I'm not you, Doctor. I'm not what this universe needs. I have played my part. If you don't get out there and play yours, I swear I will drag you there by your ear, bombs or no," she said, crossing her arms. "I'll disable the field generator when I know you're in range. They're going to know it was me and I'm not getting myself thrown in a prison cell for nothing."

The Doctor gaped at her for a few moments before she pushed him toward the door. After that, he did only what he knew to do. What he did best. He ran.

He was barely conscious of his motions, one foot in front of the other as he bounded through the Citadel, avoiding those few scattered in the streets. Once on the outside, he headed straight for his TARDIS, wanting nothing more than to put Gallifrey behind him. As he approached, he pat down his pockets before realizing the key had been in his hand just before the bomb blast hit him. He dropped down to the grass, searching it around the edge of the TARDIS when he spotted a glint of metal.

Shouts echoed in the distance, Time Lords coming for him, to throw him in jail. A part of him wanted to just give up but the idea that Romana would be thrown in there with him, forever bitter toward him, made him grab the key and unlock the TARDIS door before they spotted him. When the door clicked shut, he heard the field around the TARDIS reengage, protecting him from outside forces.

His muscles grew slack, making his whole body hard to carry through to the console room. He dragged his feet with all the energy he had left and dematerialized. He didn't know where or care as long as it was far away from Gallifrey. When his ship was in motion, he collapsed, falling to the raised platform the console stood on, resting the back of his head onto one of the sides of the console's hexagonal shape. He looked out at the way he stumbled in, and saw a messy blood trail smeared across the floors, dripping into a pool beneath his form.

The blood that both was and wasn't his caused his stomach to lurch. It spurred him into movement, standing up and walking through the corridors to the nearest bathroom where he slumped over the sink in front of a mirror. Looking at himself made him feel worse, to see the death soaked into his skin, his clothes, his hair. He grabbed a clump, matted down with blood that he knew wasn't his. He touched it, the thick red liquid coming away on his fingers and he saw the face of the little girl with the leaking head wound.

In a fit of rage, of despair, he tore off the remains of his jacket, thickly scented of smoke, and threw it at the bathtub to his right. He did the same with his waist coat, his shirt, distancing himself from the dark, drying blood. He filled the sink with water, using it to wipe away the stains on his face, but when he glanced back up at his reflection, his pale, hollow reflection, all he saw was the red clumpy mess the ends of his hair had become.

He stumbled out back to the console room and rummaged through the toolbox he always left nearby. After a minute of looking, he pulled out a thin blade and carried it back into the bathroom. As he stood in front of the mirror, he gripped a handful of his hair and viciously cut it away. Without a second glance, he let it fall to the floor, already onto the next handful, then the next, and the next, until he didn't look like the same person anymore. He breathed out in satisfaction as if he'd been holding it while he cut away each lock.

Unrecognizable, that's what he wanted. New hair, new clothes, and none would know him as the Doctor. They shouldn't know. The name he carried gave hope to those in need, those he didn't know needed him, those he wouldn't be able to help. He didn't want to bring hope anymore when he had none left to give.


End file.
